


Fallout

by AngstandPizzaRolls



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Case Fic, John's armchair, M/M, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Song fic, This story is A Bit Not Good, Unresolved Sexual Tension, first fic, post-HLV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-14 17:40:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3419681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngstandPizzaRolls/pseuds/AngstandPizzaRolls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Abandoned)</p><p>John knew that when Sherlock got on that plane he wouldn’t be coming back. He was swallowed up in a swirl of rage, horror, and the kind of emptiness that John hadn’t felt since before he looked up and saw Sherlock with that ridiculous fake mustache.</p><p>So hearing that Moriarty was back was more than worth watching Sherlock come back from certain death.<br/>Again. </p><p>But after several long minutes of heated debate with Mycroft, Sherlock only gave John a small smirk before getting into a black car and being whisked away by his brother’s henchmen. John was left reeling. Mary’s hands were wrapped tightly around his arm, keeping him grounded and he was glad for her presence. But looking back, he had to wonder if those hands weren’t keeping him steady, but holding him back. From what? He tried not to let his mind wander there.</p><p>Inspired by Fallout-Marianas Trench</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In John’s absence, the flat was missing something vital. Something like light, or warmth. Or Oxygen.

**An empty room,**

**I'm empty too**

**And everything reminds me of you**

Leaving hadn’t been the hard part. Jumping off the roof was just playing a role, the thrill of the chase, completing the puzzle. And from that distance he couldn’t see John crumbling so it was easier to bear.

What had come next was the hard part. Waking up in an abandoned building in the middle of eastern Europe, joints stiff from the cold, without the smell of tea enveloping him or the domestic sounds of john putting around the flat. Chasing a criminal through a back alley without the warmth and reassurance of John’s presence beside him. Looking to his left after making a clever deduction that would’ve astounded any normal person and finding only empty space.

John had managed to take over and fill up all the empty places in Sherlock’s life so he was left with a gaping wound when he was ripped away. He thought coming back would be the easiest thing of all. To return to the one thing that kept him alive all that time but John had moved on. He found Mary.

Clawing his way back to life wasn’t the hard part. Forcing his heart to beat after Mary had destroyed it was nothing compared to watching her in John’s arms on the dance floor at his wedding. The hard part had been having John back for a few glorious months, only to have him slip away again, so determined in his damn moral principle to forgive her. But worst of all was standing with John on the tarmac, knowing he would never see him again. With only a handshake to say goodbye.

Sherlock stood in the middle of the sitting room, as the light outside the windows faded. He had been trapped this way for hours (days?) studying the remnants of John Watson scattered around the flat. A clock was ticking somewhere in the flat but all Sherlock could hear was the slow repetitive tapping as John attempted to type a blog entry. A few abandoned medical texts left on the shelves next to Sherlock’s books, a chipped mug sitting lonely on the kitchen counter, and most of all the armchair. It was red once, but now it just looked worn, broken down, and so empty.

In John’s absence, the flat was missing something vital. Something like light, or warmth. Or Oxygen.

The place was barren without him.

~

 

**So many things**

**I shouldn't have missed**

John knew that when Sherlock got on that plane he wouldn’t be coming back. He was swallowed up in a swirl of rage, horror, and the kind of emptiness that John hadn’t felt since before he looked up and saw Sherlock with that ridiculous fake mustache.

So hearing that Moriarty was back was more than worth watching Sherlock come back from certain death. Again. But after several long minutes of heated debate with Mycroft, Sherlock only gave John a small smirk before getting into a black car and being whisked away by his brother’s henchmen. John was left reeling. Mary’s hands were wrapped tightly around his arm, keeping him grounded and he was glad for her presence. But looking back, he had to wonder if those hands weren’t keeping him steady, but holding him back. From what? He tried not to let his mind wander there.

Now John was back at his flat. He couldn’t bring himself to call it home. A week had passed and those hands were still holding him back. There was something on telly but John had lost track of it hours ago. Every now and then Mary would laugh a little and it would snap his attention back to the present but it refused to stay there.

_Sherlock is alive. He’s in London. A cab ride away. Or just a text away._

John’s hand twitched toward his phone but he pulled it back.

_He’s back at baker street. Probably wrapped up in Moriarty’s resurrection._

He went back to solving cases. According to Mrs. Hudson, he’s as lively as ever with his vile experiments and untimely violin concerts.

_Sherlock Holmes is alive. And I’m not with him._

“You alright?” Mary asked lightly.

John tore his gaze from the wall and met her eyes with a reassuring smile. “Fine.”

“We were going to go out for dinner, but if you’re not up to it…” She let her words trail off, the question clear. His response was slow and slurred as if he was just waking up but his words made some of the tension in her shoulders dissipate. “No, not really. But I’ll make something.”

It wasn’t fair to Mary that he was ignoring her or that he hadn’t really been mentally present in days. John meant what he said on christmas day. He had forgiven her, moved back in. He was going to enjoy the domesticity. Bracing himself, John stood from the couch and marched into the kitchen. He would be with her here now. For the rest of the night at least. He won’t lie awake and think about Sherlock like he had the last few nights. He would chat about his day and listen about hers. He would cook his wife dinner and he won’t hear Sherlock’s voice in his head telling him how he was doing it wrong.

He won’t have to clear away a chemistry set from every available surface in the kitchen and that won’t make him homesick. And when he opens the fridge, he definitely will _not_ feel a small pang of sadness at the lack of body parts scattered among the produce.

~

 

**The more that I push**

**And the more you resist**

John was strangely chatty at dinner but Mary saw right through it. John was never a particularly talkative man and he had spent the whole afternoon glaring into space. He was trying too hard to act like everything was normal.

Once the initial annoyance wore off, she decided to take advantage of it. They had settled back on the couch to finish their film and before his mind could wander, she placed a hand on his thigh.

They hadn’t been together since she shot Sherlock, not for her lack of trying. And her hormones were driving her crazy almost constantly. _Maybe now that Sherlock was fine and Magnussen was neutralized and John has forgiven me, things could go back to the way they had been before._

John’s eyes followed her hand, trailing slowing up his leg, while the rest of his body went rigid and still. He jumped up just before her hand reached its destination and Mary sighed. _Maybe not._

“John-” She said wearily but he threw a hand up to stop her.

“John-” She started again.

“No.” Biting back her annoyance, she made her voice as sweet as she could and asked, “Why not?”

“I…” He began, then after a moment of strained silence, he snapped his mouth closed again. She could see the gears turning in his head behind his eerily still face and rolled her eyes. He always was easier to read than he thought.

Mary wanted to strangle him more than anything then. He didn’t even know why he was refusing, even though it was obvious to everyone else on the planet. That made the rejection even more bitter. He didn’t even see it.

~

 

**It's easy to say it's for the best**

**When you want more**

**While you leave me with less**

He wasn’t sure where he was headed when he closed the front door behind him, but he knew the winter air was so much better than the stifling sitting room. John made a hasty exit after Mary stormed into the bedroom. He wasn’t sure if it was a dismissal or an invitation despite the horrible reception her advance had gotten. He wasn’t willing to find out either way.

John wasn’t a coward, but he had seen a fairly small coin with a fairly large bullet hole in it and a fairly smug blond on the other end of the gun.

There had been a voice in the back of his mind that night that told him he wouldn’t be able to forgive her. But Sherlock had convinced him she was worth forgiving and if there was one person John knew he could trust to be right…

Maybe Sherlock wasn’t so infallible after all.

John walked for almost an hour before his aching feet and his conscience told him to turn back. She hadn’t done anything wrong. Well, nothing new. But he couldn’t stand the feeling of her hand squeezing his leg. He had felt that hand before.

Greedy. Possessive. Inexorable.

That hand was on his waist on his wedding day. In his hand at Sherlock’s bedside. On his arm as Sherlock’s plane turned around.

John wanted to forgive her. He had tried so damn hard because it was the right thing to do. But how much more could he take? Mary wasn’t the woman he had married. She never had been but he was too stupid, or too depressed, to see it. And now he was stuck with this stranger who expected him to love her.

_I don’t even know her name._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn’t a matter of whether or not Sherlock could solve the case without John. It was that he didn’t want to.

**I know you're fine, but what do I do?**

Sherlock glanced around for his phone at the small chirp that pierced the silence. He had been waiting for Lestrade’s response for nearly six hours after the DI sent him a rather lengthy and disgruntled message listing all the reasons one shouldn’t text someone at four in the morning looking for a case.

I’ve got a homicide but it’s pretty open and shut. I solved it all by myself if you can believe it. GL

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the sarcasm behind his words and sent a terse reply.

Doubtful SH

Even a simple case would be better than the boredom that had consumed him. He tried to begin the search for Moriarty but Mycroft was there at ever turn to shut him out. Sherlock gave up after several days and had been itching for something to occupy his mind ever since. The experiments were tedious, the violin not nearly as cathartic as it used to be, and until that morning Lestrade had been holding out on him.

He had considered texting John. Gone to the brink of it so many times but he pulled back every time. He had made his decision very clear when he moved back in with Mary. After months of sleeping on Sherlock’s couch because he refused to admit he was doing anything more than just crashing for the night, John packed up all the things that had accumulated and left. Sherlock should’ve seen it coming. He even caught John practicing forgiving Mary in the bathroom mirror. But he didn’t want to see it. So he deleted all the evidence and let himself be shocked and pained when the door closed behind John for the last time.

Sherlock sprung from the couch and rushed to dress himself. The sooner he got to Scotland Yard the sooner he would have a puzzle to solve. But what then? He would return to his empty flat and…

The whole thing felt wrong. For years he had done just that but now he knew better. He wouldn’t be able to focus on the case any more than he was able to focus on his experiments. But unlike his experiments he would be missing more that disapproving but resigned sigh, there would be a gaping emptiness to his right.

There were three drafts of the message he sent to John, each getting more and more brief as Sherlock got annoyed with himself. Sherlock shrugged on his coat and hit send before shoving the phone deep into his pocket. He hated that he couldn’t deny it anymore. His mind was as sharp as it had ever been, capable of solving any mystery put before it. It wasn’t a matter of whether or not Sherlock could solve the case without John. It was that he didn’t want to.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast with Mary was tense. The couple spent most of it in silence. It only got worse when a text from Sherlock made John’s phone light up and buzz on the table.  
> Lestrade needs our help on his latest case. Death in Boscombe valley. NSY 9:00. SH

**I know you're fine, but what do I do?**

Breakfast with Mary was tense. The couple spent most of it in silence. It only got worse when a text from Sherlock made John’s phone light up and buzz on the table. 

_Lestrade needs our help on his latest case. Death in Boscombe valley. NSY 9:00. SH_

“You should go.” Mary said glaring into her coffee. John watched her for a moment before returning his gaze to the phone. “I don’t know. I have to work later.” 

“I’m sure Dr. Anstruther would fill in for you.” She snapped, setting her mug down with a loud thunk and a slosh of the liquid over the edge. “You’ve been antsy lately. I think it would do you some good and you’re always so interested in Sherlock’s cases.” 

He could hear the hostility behind her encouragement and didn’t bother staying at the table any longer. He should’ve insisted on saying no, on staying with Mary and working through the weirdness between them, on staying with Mary and finishing the business she started the night before. But they both knew the truth. He couldn’t have said no if he wanted to. 

  


John was on his way ten minutes later, sitting in the back of a cab that was moving much too slow for his taste. Stepping out onto the pavement in front of New Scotland Yard was like a breath of fresh air and finding his way to Sherlock in Lestrade’s office was like coming home. 

“John.” Sherlock said. “I’m glad you came. It makes a considerable difference to me having someone who is not worthless or otherwise biassed that I can rely on.” 

Lestrade shot Sherlock a glare and ushered John inside. “Um, Thanks.” John said, taking a seat. Lestrade sat behind his desk and started shuffling through the files on his desk. 

“Have you heard about the case?” Sherlock asked from his position against the wall by the door. 

“I haven’t read the paper for a few days.” John admitted. What he didn’t admit was that he hadn’t read the paper for months because it made him see cases in each headline and that didn’t accomplish anything but making him homesick. 

“The London press is useless. I looked through all the recent papers this morning for the particulars but they are so full of conjecture I can hardly use any of it as a reliable source. It seems, from what I gather, to be one of those simple cases which are so extremely difficult.” Sherlock said. Lestrade snorted, shaking his head, but he didn’t look up from his files, “It’s already solved. Not so difficult after all.” 

“If it’s already solved, what are we doing here?” John asked but Sherlock was scowling at Lestrade and continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Singularity is almost invariably a clue. The more featureless and commonplace a crime is, the more difficult it is to solve. Lestrade is the perfect example of this. Aren’t you, Gerald?” 

“You’re doing it on purpose now.” Lestrade grumbled. 

“Does anyone want to actually tell me about the case?” John snapped, drawing an abashed half smile from Sherlock and an exasperated head shake from Lestrade. 

Sherlock said, “I’ll tell you about it on the way” at the same time Lestrade said, “A man was killed by blunt force trauma” offering John the file he had found in the mess. “We’ve got two witnesses who saw him arguing with his son just minutes before his death. It’s pretty common. _And fairly obvious_.” The last statement was directed at Sherlock who was shaking his head before the other man finished speaking. 

“And that it what makes the police useless.” 

“More useless than the papers?” John teased. 

“Undoubtably.” Sherlock pushed off the wall and began to pace the small space. It was a familiar sight, natural to watch Sherlock’s body thrumming with the speed of his thought, unable to stay still any longer. It was easy to fall back into this small comfort. Then the other man’s mouth took off, pouring out his swirling thoughts with dizzying speed. Even that made John smile. “There is nothing more deceptive than obvious fact. Besides, a look of the case we’ll find some other _obvious_ facts which may have eluded Lestrade. I can confirm or desert his theory with a single glance.” 

“It’s not a theory.” Lestrade protested but didn’t get any further than that. 

“I have skills that you are neither capable of employing nor understanding. Take John, for example. I can tell that the window in your bathroom is on the right hand side. Tell me, Lestrade, did you notice something so conspicuous?” 

“How-?” John decided it wasn’t worth it to ask. Sherlock would explain before he could even get the question out. Lestrade just glowered. 

“I know you well enough. You shave every morning in characteristic military neatness.You were awake far earlier than you normally are, if the dark circles under your eyes are anything to go by, and didn’t want to risk waking Mary so you shaved by sunlight. Your shaving is less and less complete as we get farther back on the left side. It’s clear that that side is less illuminated than the other. I can’t imagine you’d be satisfied with your work if you saw it in equal light. I see everything and it is just possible that I may be of some service in this investigation. That is why we’re here, John. Because there are two seemingly minor details that have been overlooked by Lestrade’s incompetent staff that are worth more consideration than they’ve been given.” 

Lestrade watched Sherlock with narrowed eyes for a long minute, before he shook his head and sat heavily in his desk chair. “What details?” 

“The son wasn’t arrested until after he returned to Hatherly Farm. When he was taken into custody, he said he wasn’t surprised.” 

“Isn’t that a confession?” John asked, looking between Greg and Sherlock who both looked smug for two very different reasons. John didn’t understand Sherlock’s reason until he continued. 

“No. It was followed by claims of innocence.” 

“A statement like that is suspicious. Especially considering all the circumstantial evidence.” Lestrade spoke up. He didn’t seem too concerned with Sherlock picking apart his case. More like he was just waiting with uncharacteristic surety for Sherlock to come to the same conclusion he came to. 

"Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing," answered Sherlock thoughtfully. "It may seem to point straight to one thing, but if you shift your own point of view a little, you may find it pointing in an equally uncompromising manner to something entirely different. The case against McCarthy is solid, and it is very possible that he is the culprit. There are plenty people who believe in his evidence among them is the daughter of the neighboring landowner. Miss Turner contacted me week ago asking for my help.” 

“Why’d you wait until now?” John asked. “I thought you were taking cases.” 

“So Lestrade’s been kind enough to let us see the crime scene and interview the witnesses.” Sherlock plowed on, ignoring John’s questions. 

“I have?” 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the most part, Sherlock was his normal self. There were a few moments throughout the day, though, when John would freeze and think 'Maybe…' without daring to finish the thought.

**I'm awake, and trying**

**While you're sleeping like a babe**

**Beside her**

Sherlock’s bow dangled from his fingertips over the edge of his chair. He’d given up on playing hours ago. He was turning over a case in his mind. It was an interesting case that Lestrade was struggling with whether he wanted to admit it or not.

Well he should’ve been turning the case over in his mind. Instead, he was seeing John.

He’d said too much on the way back to the train from the crime scene. He’d shown his hand when they arrived back in London. Driven the other man away because he couldn’t keep his own damnable feeling to himself.

He had to think of the case. The crime scene had been fruitful, providing samples of ash and sediment, even the murder weapon.

It was sometime around three in the morning, now. John would be in bed by now. With Mary.

_Think of the case._ The neighbor is obviously connected. Sherlock had leaned forward and John had run away. He’d been so stupid, letting his emotions get the best of him. He had been on the edge of losing him forever but by some twist of fate he got a second, well third, chance and he was wasting it. He could have John the way he had him before. But it wasn’t enough for him anymore. Sherlock wanted more it was going to drive John away if it hadn’t already.

_The case._

_John._

~

 

**I'm on the ledge while you're so**

**God damn polite and composed**

It was the same dream. The same one he’d been having for almost three years now.

The world was shades of white and rich blue. One spot of vivid red on the pavement around his body.

John used to scream and rush forward but he wasn’t fast enough. Sometimes he would stay on the line and talk Sherlock off the ledge. Sometimes he would catch him.

But tonight it was different. He could see Sherlock’s outstretched hand, his own aching to reach it. He heard the other man’s trembling voice through the phones cradled against his ear. But John was the one looking down on the world. He was the one teetering on the edge with Sherlock begging him to stay.

He woke before he fell. John’s world was always the one to tip first, even when Sherlock was falling. Sometime it was enough to jar him awake and he wouldn’t have to see the splash of red in the crystal blue and white world. But that’s not what woke him this time. The word that woke him cut through sleep, barely above a whisper, cracking but with so much strength.

One single “please”.

The word wrung in his mind as he lay in the dark. It was so rare to hear Sherlock beg, and even more rare for it to be so genuine. John couldn’t recall what memory that broken sound came from but it was so clearly Sherlock’s voice. John had never heard him sound so shattered. Or seen him so distraught.

With a gun in his hand pointed at a bomb, on the edge of bart’s, on his knees begging for forgiveness from to be the last thing he heard before they both blew up. The barest hints of the ruin John had seen in Sherlock’s eyes as John leaned forward in his dream. None compared to the image John conjured up of Sherlock knowing he was going to have to go on living in a world where John doesn't exist.

It wasn’t his ego that made him dream it up. It was just that he knew how it felt to watch his world spinning out toward the pavement and he was holding onto the tiny spark of hope he’d seen earlier that day on the case that maybe, just maybe, John was as important to Sherlock as Sherlock was to him.

 

He purposely avoided the guilt that would’ve come from thinking about what happened when he got home. Instead he turned his thoughts to that morning finding that ground safer to tread.

For the most part, Sherlock was his normal self. There were a few moments, though, when John would freeze and think Maybe… without daring to finish the thought.

Lestrade made some calls, grumbling under his breath the whole time, making arrangements for john and Sherlock to see the crime scene. John listened absently for a few minutes and turned to talk to Sherlock but he had gone. he suppressed his sigh and his disappointment. It was Sherlock after all.

He slipped into the room a few minutes later, two small paper cups in hand. He gave the first to John, who took it diplomatically with a small “ta” and placed it untouched on the edge of Lestrade’s desk. He knew better than to accept coffee from Sherlock. The other was placed roughly between Lestrade and his telephone, sloshing menacingly. Greg froze mid-dial and gawked at the cup, then at Sherlock, then back at the cup.

John was just as surprised as Greg but he smiled and silently urged the other man to stop making such a big deal about it. But he kept gawking, and just as John suspected, Sherlock rolled his eyes and threw himself into the open seat beside john mumbling something about never getting the idiot anything again.

~

 

**And I know you see me,**

**And you're making it look so easy**

The crime scene was a two hour train-ride north, so John waited until they were settled into their seats before he asked for more details on the case.

“On January 3rd, McCarthy left his house at Hatherly about three in the afternoon and walked down to the Boscombe Pool, which is a small lake formed by the spreading out of the stream which runs down the Boscombe Valley. He had been out with his friend in the morning in town, and he had told the man that he must hurry, as he had an important appointment at three. From Hatherly Farmhouse to the Boscombe Pool is a quarter of a mile, and two people saw him as he walked the distance. One was an old woman, and the other was William Crowder, an employee of the neighbor Mr. Turner. Both these witnesses say that Mr. McCarthy was walking alone. Crowder said that within a few minutes of his seeing Mr. McCarthy pass he had seen his son, Mr. James McCarthy, following with a gun under his arm.

"The two McCarthys were seen after the time when William Crowder lost sight of them. Patience Moran, the daughter of one of the employees of the estate, was in the woods picking flowers. She said that while she was there she saw, at the border of the wood and close by the lake, Mr. McCarthy and his son, and that they appeared to be having a violent quarrel. She heard Mr. McCarthy using very strong language to his son, and she saw James nearly hit him. She was scared and ran away and told her mother when she got home that she had left the two McCarthys arguing near Boscombe Pool, and that she was afraid that they were going to fight. She had hardly said the words when young Mr. McCarthy came running up to the lodge to say that he had found his father dead in the woods, and to ask for the help of the lodge-keeper. He was anxious, without either his gun or his hat, and his right hand and sleeve were stained with fresh blood. They found the dead body stretched out upon the grass beside the pool. The head had been beaten in by repeated blows of some heavy and blunt weapon. The injuries were such as might very well have been inflicted by the butt-end of his son's gun, which was found lying on the grass within a few paces of the body. Under these circumstances the young man was instantly arrested.”

“And that’s when he confessed?” John asked, after a minute of absorbing all the new information.

“He didn’t confess.” Sherlock corrected, “He said he wasn’t surprised they were arresting him.”

“Okay, but still.” John rolled his eyes. “It’s suspicious.”

“You’d have to be an imbecile to not realize all the evidence against you. I would’ve been more suspicious if he had acted surprised or feigned indignation. His frank acceptance of the situation is a sign of his innocence.”

John wasn’t quite convinced but he moved on. “What was James McCarthy’s side of the story?”

“We’ll interview him tomorrow.” Sherlock assured. He settled into his seat, hands steepled under his chin and John knew the conversation was over.

The rest of the trip was passed in silence. John tried to read the dime-rack mystery novel he had found under his seat. The plot of the story was so thin, compared to any of the mysteries Sherlock had solved. His attention strayed to his traveling companion.

Every time Sherlock would shift restlessly in his seat, John’s eyes were drawn to him only to be snapped back to the novel when Sherlock looked up.

Sherlock closed his eyes and John indulged himself. He glanced over him from head to toe, his gaze resting on the pulse in Sherlock’s neck.

He had done this the last time he returned from the dead. When John had thought he’d lost him forever and his entire world ended. Sherlock came back after three years and sometimes John would think he couldn’t possibly be real. He had the intense urge to reach for Sherlock’s wrist and count the beats of his heart to remind himself he was real. He settled for watching the nearly-undetectable steady thrum of his neck.

It really was a great neck, one John found himself watching even when he wasn’t looking for a pulse.

Lestrade was waiting for them when the train pulled into the station and the three of them took a cab straight to the home of the late Mr. McCarthy.

Hatherly Farm was a widespread, comfortable-looking building, two-storied, slate-roofed, with great yellow blotches of lichen on the gray walls. But the drawn blinds and the smokeless chimneys gave it a stricken look, like the weight of this tragedy still laid heavy over it.

They met three officers from the local station who would show them around the crime scene. Sherlock blew right by them to inspect the front yard, vaguely aware that John had stayed behind to apologize and shake hands.

The maid let them all into the house and at Sherlock’s prompting, began to tell them about the day of the murder.

“Show me the boots.” Sherlock demanded in the middle of the maid’s account of the incident.

Her confusion was obvious as she looked between Lestrade and some of the local officers that were required to be there. All the idiots looked confused or doubtful, one even openly glaring at Sherlock.

“Mr. McCarthy’s boots,” John supplied helpfully. “The one’s he was wearing when he died.”

Sherlock smiled slightly, and turned back to the maid, who was still being dense.

“If you wouldn’t mind.” Lestrade prompted and she nodded and left to fetch the boot. Sherlock’s smile faded when Lestrade turned to him.

“And the son’s boots!” Sherlock called loudly up the stairs after her. There were some murmurs behind his back that he pretended not to hear. He knew John had heard by the way his back went ramrod straight and his fists clenched at his sides.

Curiosity demanded Sherlock stand back and observe but he didn’t want John to get arrested for assaulting an officer in defense of Sherlock’s honor. Again. So he brushed his shoulder against the other man’s and offered him a smile when he looked up. John seemed to relax as he smiled back but the maid returned before Sherlock could say anything.

He expected John to question his intent but he was silent, watching Sherlock examined the shoes the maid returned with, a small unconscious smile.

The room was silent as he worked so the single word was like the crack of a whip. When he leaned in close and sniffed the bottom of the victim’s shoe, one of the officers mumbled, “Freak.”

His eyes flicked to John to gauge his reaction but John hadn’t heard. He was watching Sherlock with a mix of fascination and fondness.

Sherlock was used to John smiling at him but it was usually when he was mildly annoyed or majorly pissed off. A genuine smile with nothing but joy was rare for John Watson, but this, the way his eyes glowed and crinkled ever so slightly, Sherlock had never seen it before.

He tossed the shoes aside when he had taken the proper measurements and charged outside. John followed close behind but Lestrade and the local officer whose name sherlock hadn’t bothered to learn stayed behind, stunned by his sudden change of direction and possibly the shoes flying through the air.

When they’d made it through the yard and the wood behind it, they came into a large clearing with a small pond on the boundary between Hatherly farm and Turner’s private estate.

~

 

**What comes and goes,**

**I'd go without**

When they came into the clearing, Sherlock scanned it with sharp eyes. The Boscombe Pool was thickly wooded round, with just a fringe of grass and of reeds around the edge.

“Why did you go into the pond?” he asked.

"I fished about with a rake. I thought there might be some weapon or other trace. But how the hell-“ Lestrade was cut off.

“That left foot of yours with its inward twist is all over the place. How simple it would all have been had I been here before they came like a herd of buffalo and wallowed all over it. Here is where the party with the lodge-keeper came, and they have covered all tracks for six or eight feet round the body. But here are three separate tracks of the same feet." He pulled his magnifying class from his coat and crouched down, careful not to let his coat get muddy, to have a better view, talking all the time rather to himself than to us. "These are young McCarthy's feet. He came through here twice, running once, the soles are deeply marked and the heels hardly visible. That bears out his story. He ran when he saw his father on the ground.”

He seemed to be talking to himself but every now and then he would look up at John to see if he was following along.

Lestrade and John walked behind him, the detective indifferent and contemptuous, while he watched his friend with the interest, knowing that every one of his actions was directed towards a definite end.

“He’s the father's feet as he paced. What is this, then? The butt-end of the gun as the son stood listening.”

John watched him move so gracefully, watched the billowing coat and the rippling muscles in his legs. It was beautiful, the energy, the light in his eyes.

This had been the moment John knew he couldn’t walk away from Sherlock Holmes, when he watched him examine the crime scene in Brixton. His mind racing and his mouth barely moving fast enough to keep up. The deductions pouring out of him and he practically skipped away.

There was so much joy, John couldn’t help but feel it too.

“And this? Ha, ha! What have we here? Tiptoes! tiptoes! Square, too, quite unusual boots! They come, they go, they come again. Now where did they come from?" He ran up and down, sometimes losing, sometimes finding the track until we were well within the edge of the wood and under the shadow of a great beech, the largest tree in the area.

He traced his way to the farther side of this and crouched down once more almost on his face with a little cry of satisfaction.

He stayed there for a long time, turning over the leaves and dried sticks, gathering up what seemed to be dust into an envelope and examining with his lens not only the ground but the bark of the tree as far as he could reach.

His coat was swept aside by the wind and John’s eyes caught on his long rigid body, stretched to the very tip of his toes to examine the tree. The hard line of his back, sinewy muscles stretched taut. And his vision was obstructed again as the coat fell back into place.

He looked away guiltily. The thoughts weren’t exactly new and John had always indulged himself, they were just thoughts after all. But lately, they hadn’t seemed so innocent. His mind no longer reacting to Sherlock with just casual interest. Now his body was reacting and it really couldn’t have come at a worse time.

There was a jagged stone lying among the moss, and John watched Sherlock rush to it and kneel carefully to examined it. He had to throw back the edge of his coat to keep it from the dirt, exposing the lush swell of his ass propped high in the air.

_Fucking hell._

John tried to look away, he really did but it was right there. And John was too busy-fighting back the inexplicably intense urge to lean forward and just bite it-to look away.

Sherlock jumped up just as suddenly as he’d gone to his knees.

_Nope. Nope. Nope._

It was damp, marshy ground, and the ground was covered in foot prints, both on the path and in the short grass on either side. Sometimes he would hurry on, sometimes stop dead, and once he made a little detour into the meadow. Then he followed a pathway through the woods until he came to the highroad, where all traces were lost.

Lestrade showed them the exact spot where the body had been found, and John could still plainly see the traces left by the corpse. Sherlock inspected the ground closely and stood, returning suddenly to the aloof genius.

"This may interest you, Lestrade," he remarked, holding out the stone he picked up in the woods. "The murder was done with it."

“I don’t see any marks on it.”

"There are none."

“Then how do you know this is the murder weapon?” John asks, knowing better than to doubt him.

"The grass was growing under it. It had only been there for a few days. It corresponds with the injuries. There is no sign of any other weapon."

"And the murderer?’' Lestrade asked skeptically.

”Is a tall man, left-handed, limps with the right leg, wears thick-soled shooting-boots and a gray cloak, smokes Indian cigars, uses a cigar-holder, and carries a blunt pen-knife in his pocket. There are several other indications, but these may be enough to aid us in our search."

Lestrade laughed. "We have got to the deductions and the inferences. I find it hard enough to tackle facts, Holmes, without your deductions. You’re going to have to explain all of that if it’ll hold up.”

"You are right," said Sherlock demurely; "you do find it very hard to tackle the facts."

“Anyhow,” Lestrade said sharply. “I have grasped one fact which you seem to find it difficult to get hold of"

"And that is?”

"That McCarthy senior was killed by his son and that all theories to the contrary are just speculation."

"You work your own method, and I’ll work mine. John and I will return to London by the evening train.” He answered calmly.

"And leave the case unfinished?” John interjected.

"No, finished."

"But the case?” John looked to Lestrade for answers but he looked just as confused.

“It's solved.”

"Who was the criminal, then?"

"The man I described."

"But who is he?’’

“I don’t know.” Sherlock said easily as he replaced his gloves. Shoving his hands in his pockets he started the walk back to the Hatherly Farmhouse without looking back.

“Okay.” Lestrade said with a heavy sigh, calling after Sherlock. “Let’s say you’re right and it wasn’t James McCarthy. How would you find the murderer?”

“It’s a small neighborhood.” Sherlock said, then, “Are you coming John?”

“Yeah.” John said quietly, giving Lestrade an apologetic glance.

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "I can’t go around the whole countryside looking for a left-handed man with a game-leg. I’d become the laughing-stock of Scotland Yard.”

“Don’t be silly,” Sherlock said, an ornery smile twisting the corner of his lip. “You already are.”

“Sherlock.” John scolded quietly, but he was smiling. After a few minutes of silence, he spoke up. “So we’re just leaving?”

“Miss Turner will be at Baker Street tomorrow morning and after we speak with her we’ll return to have a word with James McCarthy and find the murderer.”

John put his hands in his pockets and nodded.

“I know you find this case particularly intriguing.” Sherlock continued.

“Hmm?”

“You were watching me gathering data rather closely.”

John’s step faltered but a quick look at Sherlock told him the other man didn’t know the real reason he was staring so much.

“Yeah.” John mumbled. “You don’t usually try to prove someone innocent.”

“Maybe I empathize with James McCarthy.”

“You?” John asked, then chastised himself for sounding so surprised.

“I believe the motive of this particular murder to be worthy of my empathy.”

“You’ve figured out the motive then? What is it?”

Sherlock was silent.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed.  
> Don't be afraid to tell me about any glaring errors, inconsistencies, or confusion with the storyline. This is my first attempt at writing them on a case so positive or negative, any and all feedback helps.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I love you.” He said again, more forcefully, like if he said it hard enough it will be enough. Panting, he covers his face with his hands, pushing in hard to try to keep them from shaking. All he could see was swirling blue and grey and green.

**I know you're fine but what about**

The train pulled into the station and John let out a long silent sigh. He’d spent the entire trip staring out the window, refusing to meet Sherlock’s eye and refusing to give into the almost painful urge to reach out and smooth the crease between the other man’s eyes with his fingertips.

Every now and then, Sherlock’s arm would brush against John’s causing a spark of heat that flared along his entire left side. Every nerve standing at attention where their bodies made contact, and tingling when his arm slid away. And he couldn’t stop turning Sherlock’s confession over in his mind.

To make matters worse, Sherlock spent the whole trip staring at John, most likely seeing through every attempt at nonchalance. His gaze was like a heavy hand brushing over John’s face and along his neck. It was warm and both unwelcome and craved.

So when the train began to slow to a stop, John jumped up from his seat and shoved his arms into his coat. He’d had to take it off twenty minutes into the trip because gripping the armrests so tightly was making him sweat. Sherlock watched dutifully, his features carefully arranged in a mask of disinterest.

The train lined up with the platform and Sherlock stood, filling the tiny space with his height and his imposing presence. John focused on his breathing as Sherlock filled up his whole vision. There was a spot on his coat that was very interesting. It looked soft, not like Sherlock’s hair, or his lips. No, it was a nice coat and deserved the attention it-

The whole car stuttered and slammed to a halt, and John’s face smashed right into that spot on Sherlock’s coat, the part that covered the shirt that covered the prominent collar bones that had definitely _not_ driven John to distraction all day.

Sherlock’s hands fell on John’s biceps to steady him and stayed there long after John had regained his footing.

He held on and just watched John with the same noiseless intensity he’d had for the last hour. John couldn’t hide from those eyes now. They were face to face. And those faces were only inches apart. He saw Sherlock’s shoulder’s shift in his peripheral but his eyes were stuck on swirling blue and grey and green.

The same kind of wordless conversation they often had before. There were words just for the two of them floating in the thin air between them, surrounding them. Deductions, questions, promises.

“John.” His quiet voice rattled John’s chest. All at once voicing those deductions and questions and promises but John pretended not to understand.

“Sherlock.” John replied, the only response there would ever be. Saying so much with so little breath.

The hands on his biceps slipped a little, cupping his elbows lightly then moving to circle his wrists.

The air was stuffy between them as each struggled to pull in enough oxygen with each panting breath.

Sherlock’s breath hitched once as he, with his whole body, started to lean forward. The sharp sound snapped John back to reality and he careened away from Sherlock pulling his hands away in the same motion.

 

~

 

**Fallout**

“We’re interviewing Turner’s daughter tomorrow, right then. So I’ll come round in the morning.” John rushed out as he pushed past Sherlock into the aisle and off the train without looking back.

 

~

 

**Fallout**

He hailed a cab before he could think about what had just happened too closely. And refused to look back.

He waited until he was tucked away in the back of the cab on his way home before he let his panic loose. John was on his way home to _Mary_. So John shouldn’t still feel the heat of a man’s body on the sensitive skin of his wrist. But he does. And he feels the short, sharp puffs of breath on his face.

~

 

**Fallout**

It was ridiculous. John had lived with the man for almost two years. That hadn’t been the first time John had occupied a small space with his friend. There had been plenty stake-outs, arguments in the narrow staircase, disagreements over the very limited bathroom space. It wasn’t the first time they had ever been so close. Sherlock wasn’t exactly a fan of personal space, not when invading it could be used to manipulate someone. Was he manipulating John? He felt manipulated. Well, he felt something…

~

 

**Fallout**

There was something in the way Sherlock said his name, something in the way he held his arms gingerly, like he was something precious but tightly, so close to him because he didn’t want to let him go.

Sherlock’s knuckles had brushed against his hips unknowingly, or maybe he did know. Did he know that John would still be able to feel the ghost of that pressure? Did he know the thought of that touch brushing just under the hem of his shirt would make a sharp shiver chase down his spine?

~

 

**Fallout**

“Can you turn the heat down?” John rapped against the glass with all four knuckles.

The cabbie looked in the rearview mirror and grunted, “It’s not on.”

~

 

**Fallout**

He had to have known. That’s why he licked his lips, those fucking perfect lips with a pouty lower lip John just wanted to chew on, and he swallowed, that long pale expanse of throat rippling begging John to run his tongue over it, and he simply said “John.”

The word rattled around in his head, over and over again. Hushed and questioning in that bone-rattling deep voice, breaking the silence.

John swallowed and shook his head as the cab pulled up to the curb, trying to dispel the images that were taking over his mind. It didn’t work.

Cursing his own starved body, he readjusted himself in his pants and pushed out onto the sidewalk, after the cabbie was paid, hoping the cold would calm him a little. It didn’t.

~

 

**Through the Fallout**

It hadn’t exactly snuck up on him-the feeling had been following him around all day, whether he liked it or not-but John wasn’t prepared for it when he was standing all alone in the dark outside his house. All of his muscles were wired, twitching to reach out and grab someone, well not just anyone.

When he closed his eyes, John could see Sherlock right in front of him, with a large warm hand on his wrist.

What would John have done if he could go back?

Press his hips against the other man? But only to relieve the persistent ache in his groin. He’d be able to feel the warmth of his body, through two coats and all those clothes.

He wouldn’t risk a kiss. It might break the spell. But the fierce need to feel the soft skin of Sherlock’s lips would overwhelm him and he would feel them with his fingertips.

Sherlock would lean forward, the way he did just before John ran away, leaning at the ankles so his entire body crashed into John’s in a way that would _definitely_ break the spell and cast a newer stronger one immediately. One where John could crush their lips together and work his hands over those straining buttons and just touch him everywhere.

The lock slid back with a resounding clank. John’s eyes flew open.

“John, Is that you?” Mary asked, pulling open the door. There was a long moment where he stood just staring at her. He would’ve blushed in embarrassment if he wasn’t already flushed with heat. He was still as he remembered their disagreement from this morning but she seemed to have moved on.

Offering him a pleasantly neutral smile, She asked, “How was the case?”

All at once, he surged forward and pulled her into a crushing kiss. One had was in her hair, the other on her back, his mouth moving frantically against hers.

~

**Fallout**

Mary pulled back eventually with a noise that wasn’t unhappy nor unsurprised. She shifted out of the way, one hand still on the door.

John took one step inside and looked around the sitting room. It was just as he’d left it.

_This isn’t home._

He tried not to feel like a bastard for thinking it. He had a wife and a child on the way here but all he wanted to do was close his eyes for a little while.

 

**Fallout**

His hands reached out for her again and pulled her against him, as much as he could. His mouth exploring hers as his foot hooked around the door and slammed it closed.

She shoved at his coat and he pulled at her shirt and they had to break apart for a second, panting, to discard them.

He lent in to recapture the kiss but he caught his jaw between her hands to stop him. He could see the question in her eyes but she was quiet.

After a deep breath, she kissed him. They stumbled through the house, refusing to break apart again.

 

**Fallout**

Mary made it to the bedroom first, John close on her heels. She stopped at the end of the bed and he stepped in behind her, wrapping his arms around her. He kissed and nipped at her neck and held her up when her knees buckled from the attention.

She sprawled forward on the mattress. It was obvious and she wasn’t going to argue right then. He climbed over her, kissing the back of her neck, reaching around to touch her until she was trembling.

**Fallout**

It was abrupt, but she was ready. She had been waiting for this for months and even though she knew he wasn’t there with her, he was there.

**Fallout**

John closed his eyes when he entered her. He let his hands run over her body, following the well mapped paths and kept his eyes screwed shut when her breath caught and a string of little breathy moans and murmurs escaped her parted lips.

She reached out and circles her fingers around his wrist lightly, holding his hand where it was against her hip. The touch shoved all the breath from his lungs in a rush that was almost a whimper.

His hips jerked and a groan was ripped from his chest. John rested his forehead against the back of her shoulder and breathed heavily, hips still slamming against hers.

He felt the soft curve of her hips and the swell of her breasts. But he saw long solid lean muscle, tasted salt on pale skin. The body he saw in his mind was so long, so tall, too tall for him to wrap himself completely around but he wanted to try.

The heat was seeping around his body. It was in his blood. It reached up and clamped the muscles in his stomach sharply, making his rhythm stutter.

“John.” The note was simple. Hushed. Questioning in that bone-rattling deep voice. Pleading. Full of so much want.

And his orgasm was ripped from him with a cry.

He bit his lip until he tasted blood to keep from saying the name that filled his mind.

Mary spilled over a heartbeat later, her body shaking in his arms. When they had both come down, he slid off of her, careful with his weight, and plopped on the mattress beside her.

She rolled over to face him but his eyes were locked on the ceiling. He couldn’t look at her, not when he was washed in all the guilt he deserved but had been holding back for the last few weeks.

“What was that?” She asked. He could tell by her tone that she already knew. So instead of explaining he said, “I love you.”

It sounded hollow.

“I love you.” He said again, more forcefully, like if he said it hard enough it will be enough. Panting, he covers his face with his hands, pushing in hard to try to keep them from shaking. All he could see was swirling blue and grey and green.

**You're the fallout**


End file.
